On a hot July morning, some years ago, I parked my car in the police academy parking lot at the base of a mountain range skirting the south end of Phoenix, Arizona. I lugged my bags of books, newly pressed uniforms, gun belt, and my physical fitness gear to the locker room.
I was sweating within seconds of exiting my car. It was already over 90 degrees and the July humidity was going to take it’s toll on anyone foolish enough to be outside that day. I knew that the first thing on my plate this morning was physical conditioning, or PT, as it was known. I donned my 80's-style athletic shorts and white cotton T-shirt and fell-in to start morning PT. As luck would have it, my academy sergeant was a runner. A skinny, agile guy that thought running was fun. I was just shy of 200 pounds and more likely to be found in the gym with a set of weights than on the roads in a pair of running shoes. Running was painful, not fun.










